honeydunce

From brow to foot, this weekend has been…something. I want to say “the most relaxing” and “one of the most peculiar”(in relation to observing human nature/actions around me) but I cannot construct the sentence to correctly convey this thought. Through and through, I am perplexed. I guess it goes to show(goes to show who? goes to show me I suppose) that any day is everything to anyone. You might have to think about it for a moment.

The neighborhood I live in is known as Little Italy, and this weekend marked Little Italy Days–three days of festival-like activities with many booths lining the street selling edibles and wearables(like Italia track jackets and baklava). The main street through Bloomfield is a zoo during this time, particularly if you are on foot. I decided to take a trip to the grocery store, and the best route there is through the madness. I grabbed my ipod and made a go of it. I’m wading and wading through people–so many people that I’m actually standing still on the sidewalk in some places, no forward progress. I just want some bagels, and something for dinner. I make it there, and I head back with my arms swinging bags. Music still blasting, yet I’m picking up little fibers of conversation along the way. I notice backtalking children, and couples fighting aggressively in front of Armand’s(man in beret, a classic figure in the neighborhood, stands by and watches the drama). The ugly kind of argument, where the woman keeps getting closer and closer to the man’s face, and then walking away, only to come marching back to stand toe to toe with him. I’m only there to see it for a minute, and then I’m gone. But the ugliness stays. I pass gaggles of young girls who seem to flip their hair ends in unison–they seem to float inches above the ground on their own disillusions..I can see their youth like some beautiful danger. The exquisite storm that unfolds and gathers, destroys and passes. I think of my own, thankful that I never owned platform flipflops(random yes but I really thought this). If they were stopped and told to guess my age, I wonder what they would say. I’m still carrying groceries, bending to sidestep the crowds and booths.

And you know, I’m hovering above the ground a bit too. All of it touches me in some way of course(if it has to do with humanity when it comes to witnessing, them I’m going to feel it) but I’m in my own little brilliant bubble. I carry my beautiful morning with me in protection, a talisman–the clock pushing 6pm and I still had bedhead. My corkscrew frenzy halo in the wind.

Meanwhile, people are pressing hips for the first time(and countless times) and living light years from their norm(due to unusual circumstance). It is, truly, all connected. The arguing couple, the gaggle of pre-teen, the strolling street musicians who turn and pluck their strings for me and my groceries, the groceries themselves; Milly curling up in a chair next to a beaten copy of “Moby Dick;” the span of ground from K’s house to mine. The question coming up today “how am I not myself?” Even the 3 dollar lemonade–it’s all. Right. Here. This nonsense is my sense-making. My brain feels upside down–it’s wonderful.

Like planting something. At the beginning for every glance in that direction, there’s just dirt. You start to wonder/doubt if you planted anything at all. Then you forget about the void because you have other things to do and glance at, and rain comes so you can afford to be less attentive in terms of nourishment. Then a shitload of things happen in a row, eyes back to where you planted and boom–a sprig.

Yeah. In short, this weekend felt like that.